Of Grapes and Gratification
by Ryalin
Summary: My contribution to the 'No Safety Pin' challenge.  A casual dinner is anything but.


**Thanks to Sammy for the inspiration and to Lynda and Cindy for the nudges. My undying gratitude to Zakiyah, who, despite the work schedule from hell, has never once, in 8 years, said 'no' to a beta request.**

**The characters are the property of the show and the paid professionals. If I had my way, this would be an episode recap rather than a fanfiction.**

**Of Grapes and Gratification**

It started with a grape.

The evening began casually. "Just a quiet dinner," she had said. "A chance to unwind," had followed almost immediately, as if the extra encouragement was somehow mandatory. An opportunity to flex culinary muscles after more than a week of 18 hour days, fast food, and half a bottle of Tums. He was tired, more than a bit cranky, and fairly certain he smelled. But none of that could compete with the simple joy of watching her; being with her. That a woman who had spent so much of her existence training in the art of destruction could take so much unabashed pleasure in the act of cooking never ceased to amaze him. She moved about the kitchen like a trained dancer. Each movement effortless and fluid, her face glowing with a peaceful calm that had only ever graced her features during the smattering of opportunities to watch her sleep. But that was before Somalia and Eli David and Saleem Ulman and nightmares that he knew were still all too frequent. It only served to make this gift all the more precious.

She had lit candles. Soft music of an ethnic variety he couldn't quite identify played in the background. He sat on a barstool, sipping on the sauvignon blanc she had poured him following his futile attempt to offer up help. Every once in a while, a particular movement would allow him to catch her scent; the combination of vanilla and anise that he knew she favored. Outside, he was the picture of calm; attentive and curious, but relaxed. On the inside, he felt the action potential of each and every cell; the scent of her perfume adding fuel to an already raging fire he was having more and more difficulty containing.

On the stove was a strange looking clay pot with a domed lid that reminded him of a nuclear power plant reactor. She pulled out a jar that appeared to be something she had made herself, and he smiled when she put the preserved lemon in front of his nose and allowed him to take in its sweet, citrus fragrance. Marinated chicken breasts were deftly cut into strips. The heady aroma of garlic, lemon and turmeric painted olfactory pictures of far away deserts. He teased gently when her onion slicing led to sniffles and tears, all the while battling the growing impulse to take her in his arms and kiss the tears away. He knew that these tears were nothing; a harmless physical reaction, but he couldn't bear to see the tears in her eyes when they served as reminders that not so long ago, tears meant trying futilely to remember to breathe in a world where she wasn't.

And still the yearning, an intense driving need, grew. Every hint of a smile, every secret glance that she presumed he wouldn't notice, the grace with which she measured, chopped, sliced and poured, drove him ruthlessly toward a precipice. He was prepared to dig in and hold onto the edge with every ounce of whatever strength of character and moral fiber he still possessed. It was a good plan; the right thing to do. The problem was, he hadn't counted on the detonator hiding in the seemingly harmless form of a bunch of green grapes.

Chicken, onions, sliced lemons and artichokes sat bubbling in a spicy tomato base as she poured him a second glass of wine and topped off her own. Clinking her glass against his, she toasted their most recent investigative success. He responded by toasting friendship, and measuring her response. Rich, chocolate brown eyes stared into his, giving him the dizzying sensation of far more than his single glass of wine. The moment passing between them seemed like an eternity before she flashed a wicked smile and turned toward the refrigerator to remove more ingredients. Before he could question her motivation, she was leaning over the produce drawer. Most of the blood in his brain began a furious trip due south as his eyes became fixated on her perfect ass in snug black chinos. As he noticed his jeans growing uncomfortably tighter, the air seemed to thin around him, the breath catching in his throat with a quiet gasp. His pulse beat with the same staccato rhythm he hadn't felt since the moment that bastard terrorist had ripped the hood from her head and given him back a reason for living. The entire mood of the evening took a jarring shift sideways, and because his blood-deprived brain was trying desperately to latch onto some semblance of a comfort zone, he was briefly reminded of the change from black & white to Technicolor as Dorothy exited her home and saw Oz for the first time. Music that he would have earlier described as soothing now pulsed in a rhythm that hinted of heat and sex. The candles in the room intensified the burnished gold of sun-kissed skin, the palette of browns in her loose, curly hair. He caught her scent again as she turned back toward the counter with a plastic container of large, green grapes, her perfume combining with the flavors of her cooking in an amalgamation that nearly had him begging for mercy. Feigning innocence, she ignored the obvious predatory change in his expression and began to methodically remove the grapes from their stems and slice them in half before adding them to the simmering pot.

She turned to him once more as she took one wayward grape that had rolled across her counter and brought it to her lips. She tested it with her tongue, a slight lick of the accumulated moisture from the refrigerator. He realized instantly that he was now fixated on her mouth, on the way the full lips seemed to savor the exquisite moment of surrender before teeth gently nipped the pale, green skin. Biting the grape in half, the expression on her face spoke of the sweetest ambrosia as he found himself with a new appreciation of the fruit he'd really only ever valued for its fermentative glory. When she took the half eaten grape and pressed it to his own lips, he knew he had lost the battle. She gave him a look that spoke volumes in its simple declaration of need. And all at once, call it what you will, the primary detonation, the pin out of the grenade or just fate stepping in and finally saying 'enough', all rational thought was gone as all Hell broke loose.

Desire achieved critical mass as clothing exploded around the couple like so much shrapnel. All five senses simultaneously pleaded for stimulation and were rewarded a hundredfold. The feel of warm, smooth skin; her spicy vanilla scent; the same flavor playing across his tongue after licking a line from ear to lips to breasts. Sighs of pleasure were replaced by moans as his fingers skimmed the wet heat between her thighs. They all added to the glorious vision before him. Later there would be time for soft words, for subtle exploration. Later he would revel in learning all of her body's delicious secrets; but not now. Now was about five years of obediently listening to rules and excuses while his mind tried to refute what his heart had known five minutes after meeting her. Hell, what his body had known five seconds after meeting her. Now was about holding her in his arms as he fucked her against the living room wall, her legs wrapped so tightly around his waist that he was certain there'd be bruises the next morning. Now was about moving his hand from where it sensually pinched at a dusky nipple to do the exact same thing to her swollen clit. A hunger that seemed insatiable was driven even higher with the knowledge that she had ceased screaming in English and had switched to what he assumed was her native tongue.

Rather than a catastrophic burnout, each explosion of passion seemed to prime the next. He knew immediately when she came, could feel her body clench around his. Rather than slow down, he drove himself into her even harder and faster. Dark eyes stared into green, reveling in the sheen of sweat, the musky odor of sex and the sound of bodies coming together in an erotic dance as old as time. He saw those eyes darken even more and knew she was well on her way to another crest. He reveled in the awareness that he could make her body sing even after everything she had been through. She was here and she was alive and was as vital to his very existence as the air currently wheezing in and out of his lungs and the blood pulsing through his veins. When she began screaming his name a second time, he immediately shifted over to the sofa. She was too lost in her own orgasm to protest his less than gentle tumble on top of her, his body still locked within her own. Three deep thrusts and time seemed to stop. In that millisecond of perfect stillness, his mind was emptied of every worry, every doubt and every question save one. _What do you want?_

Later, as he lay in her arms, his body still shuddering from a release that had shaken his very soul, he knew the answer with a clarity never experienced before. _Her. All I will ever want is her._


End file.
